


Though He Be a King

by jesuisfarouche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Assassination, Gen, I don't know where this AU came from, M/M, but i like it, hot island king enjolras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:05:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisfarouche/pseuds/jesuisfarouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is sand beneath him and sand around him, sand between his fingers and in his mouth and his hair. Sand and salt. He can taste it on his tongue. The salt of the sea, the iron of his blood."</p>
<p>Shipwrecked on a small island kingdom, Grantaire remembers little of his reasons to sail but a dimly-lit room, an order signed in black ink, a blood oath and the silver pieces paid into his pocket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though He Be a King

There is sand beneath him and sand around him, sand between his fingers and in his mouth and his hair. Sand and salt. He can taste it on his tongue. The salt of the sea, the iron of his blood.

The waves come one after another and splash over his feet and legs. He is on a beach, he realizes. He thought he must have surely drowned, pulled down into the depths with the rest of the ship, crushed between cargo crates in the hold and his ankle tangled in a coil of rope.

The coil of rope is still wrapped around his ankle, its one long and frayed end cut by a dull knife. He does not remember this. He does remember gasping for air, desperate to inhale, choking and thrashing and nothing else beyond that. He should be dead. He thought he was dead.

The sun is hot above him; it is nearly midday. He cannot pull himself up from the sand, his arms are too weak and his body is soaked and heavy. Everything smells like salt and his head is pounding and another wave splashes against his feet.

He will close his eyes for just a moment, he thinks. He opens them and the sun is no longer above him.

He closes his eyes again, and when he opens them everything is gold and red and rose, and the sun is setting into the sea.

Sand and salt.

Hours pass, or seconds. There are voices, but they sound very far away, and there are figures coming towards him. Two men running towards him, kicking up sand behind them.

One of them is talking as he kneels in the sand and gently turns him over onto his back. The other stands apart, concerned and cautious and altogether not quite knowing how to respond to a man washed up on shore.

“Can you speak?” the one who turned him over, a bright-eyed young man perhaps a few years younger than he, asks him in the Common tongue (though heavily accented). “Can you understand me?”

His throat is dry. He attempts a response, but nothing comes but a rasp. The man digs in his pack and pulls out a water skein and holds it to his lips.

Never has water tasted so sweet.

He coughs and sputters. “My god, Combeferre, I think he’s been shipwrecked.” These words are not spoken in Common but in Islaic.

They only speak Islaic in the Southern Islands. He remembers this with a jolt and a memory of a dimly-lit room, an order signed in black ink, a blood oath and silver pieces paid into his pocket.

“Am I the only one left?” he asks in broken Islaic. The two men stare down at him; they did not expect him to speak their tongue. The one on his knees holding the skein to his lips pulls it back.

“The only one of what, friend?” he asks gently.

“The crew, are there any others—“ He coughs up sea water, and his vision swims.

“I’m sorry, it is only you.”

A wash of relief passes over him. Little black spots appear in his periphery and he feels as if the ground has shifted underneath him. He realizes he is going to lose consciousness again, and he grabs the sleeve of the man at his side, the one-not-Combeferre. “I am called Grantaire,” he says weakly.

“Grantaire.”

He hears the man speak his name, but the dark has already crept in around him. One last fleeting thought before the peace of unconsciousness: how fortunate he is to be the only survivor.

 

* * *

 

The Southern Islands is a small kingdom with no army and no large port of trade. It is composed of several large isles and many smaller ones, and at the center of it all sits a modest palace of white stone.

Combeferre ascends the main staircase of the palace two steps at a time. It is just past nightfall, but perhaps if he is quick enough he will catch the physician before he retires for the night.

The door is made of heavy, solid wood, and the sound resonates through the hall when Combeferre bangs his fist against it.

He receives no immediate reply. “Joly!” He pounds on the door once again.

“Do be patient,” comes a curt reply from inside the room.

“There is no time for patience,” Combeferre says with a sarcastic smile as the door to the physician’s chambers opens. “There’s a man, a castaway washed up on the beach, who would surely request your attention were he currently conscious.”

“A castaway?” Joly looks surprised, and then delighted, and he ducks away to collect some supplies. “Is he breathing?”

“Yes.”

Joly rifles through some supplies on a table, weighing whether or not to bring them. “Any deep lacerations?”

“No, but his hands are riddled with splinters.” Combeferre taps his foot as the physician idles about some bandages. “Do take your time, Joly.”

He receives a glare but it does the trick. Joly exits his chambers and extends an arm for Combeferre to lead the way. “Where is he being kept?”

“Courfeyrac’s rooms.”

“Odd.”

“Yes, but Courfeyrac is the one who spotted him first, and will ultimately be the one to inform the king. We were going to bring the man to you, but I know how much you dislike your workspace covered in sand.”

Joly smiles. “I thank you for that.”

Courfeyrac’s rooms are on the ground floor of the palace, and it doesn’t take long for the two men to reach his chambers. Large windows open to the sea, a crisp night breeze flows through the main room, where the man—Grantaire—lies on a pallet. Standing above him is Courfeyrac, and next to Courfeyrac—Combeferre and Joly both freeze for a moment when they realize—is the king.

Enjolras is bold and handsome, at twenty-six he has ruled the Southern Islands for nearly ten years since his father died. He stands there in Courfeyrac’s chamber, white linen tunic open in the breeze, silver circlet shining through white-gold locks, a curious expression on his face.

“At your leisure, doctor,” he says, and Joly unfreezes and goes to Grantaire, who has not yet regained consciousness. Enjolras turns then to Combeferre. “How long until you decided to tell me about the nearly-dead man who washed up on our shores?”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac share a look. They two are Enjolras’ advisors and closest friends, and have been since boyhood. They know him well, much more than the king realizes at times. “To be fair, and I am not trying to lay any blame here, but Courfeyrac did say he would inform you at once—“

“To be fair! The very thought!”

“Courfeyrac—“

“Apologies, _Highness_ —“ Enjolras cringes at this; the use of honorifics is fine from subjects and courtiers, but from Courfeyrac and Combeferre they are uncomfortable. “You simply found me before I had a chance to find you.” He turns off the snark to speak plainly. “Truly, Enjolras, it wouldn’t have been but an hour longer.”

The king places a hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “You need not apologize. What did you say the man’s name was?”

“He said he’s called Grantaire.”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras steps towards the unconscious foreigner and studies his features. Wild, dark hair that curls around his temples like a laurel wreath, thick brows, a nose clearly broken (In the wreck or before that? he wonders.). Parted lips, days of stubble on his jawline and neck, all of this punctuated by little cuts and bruises. “Did he say anything else?”

“He asked if there were other survivors.”

“And?”

“Not that we have seen.”

Enjolras tears his eyes away from Grantaire’s unconscious form and takes a few steps to the window. He stares out at the sea, the waves lit on this particularly clear night by the moon and the stars. “Ships never wreck in these waters,” he ponders. “I don’t recall it ever happening before. Combeferre?”

“Not that I can remember. There was a good deal of rain last night, I suspect visibility was pretty low. Perhaps they hit a reef.”

Enjolras’ eyes still follow the waves as they slowly made their way to shore. “Perhaps.”

Then he turns to the physician. “Will he live, Joly?”

Joly has a finger on Grantaire’s lifted eyelid and is shining a light into his eye. “I expect so, if he survived on the beach for as long as it seems he had. But there is only so much I can guess until he regains consciousness.”

“Do what you can for him in the meantime, and call for me the moment he awakes.” The king glances back to Grantaire, unmoving and pale, still covered in sand and salt. “If he should die, I wish to be informed as well.”

“Yes, Highness.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, and then addresses his advisors. “Come, we have matters to discuss--”

“And wine to drink,” Courfeyrac cuts in. Combeferre gives him a chiding look, but King Enjolras laughs and claps a hand on his friend’s back.

Later, though the company is lively and the discussion stimulating, Enjolras cannot help but think back to that man, that Grantaire, washed up on the beach half-drowned.

_Let him live_ , he prays to no gods in particular, or to all of them. He is not sure which.


End file.
